


Reunion

by restorick



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restorick/pseuds/restorick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie receives unwanted mail</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rozel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rozel/gifts).



> For Rozel who encouraged me to think of myself as a writer and kindly says she's in love with this story even though she's not a Bodie lady. Thank you.

Reunion: Who Dares, Wins. 

 

Friday, 6.30am.

“Tea, bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, beans, toast and...and...more tea; lots and lots of tea.” 

Bodie rapidly entered his flat, stepping over a doormat of post and slung his keys into a bowl as he pushed on through to the kitchen. Doyle watched him go, envying the energy he’d managed to find after two days and nights on an obbo but not surprised when there was food on his mind. Scratching his stubble and considering whether he’d go home then or have breakfast first, Doyle picked up the mail. 

Bodie was simultaneously clattering pans, unloading the fridge and making a brew when his partner flopped into a chair and before too long they were blissfully drinking hot tea. The enticing smells of frying persuaded Doyle to put aside his ethical stand on pig rearing and battery hens, and stay.

 

As he wiped white sliced around an empty plate, Bodie sifted through his post. “Bill. Bill. Bank statement.” Looking up, he pleaded “Whatever happened to good old correspondence? You know; letters with cheerful news, a postal order from your auntie, ‘wish you were here’, that sort of thing?”

“That one looks interesting,” the other yawned, nodding at a quality envelope his friend was turning over. 

The face was expectant until Bodie clocked the front. Then it changed; setting his jaw, chewing the inside of his lip. Doyle knew what that expression meant. Bodie was either very unimpressed or seriously considering. In that instance, it seemed a combination of the two. Having slit the envelope with his knife he briefly slid out a thick card, scanned it without really reading and shoved it back inside. “No. It’s not.” Slinging the letter down, he piled their plates and cutlery, face stern and avoiding Doyle’s eyes. 

Interest awakened but knowing better than to blatantly read the mail for himself, Doyle waited until his host had gone then turned it with a cautious finger. He made lightening fast observations: type written, London postmark and a small return address at the bottom which didn’t register before he was roused by an annoyed voice.

“Pursuing enquiries, Detective Constable?” Bodie snatched the thing up, took it to the kitchen bin and deposited it with a flourish and glare at his partner that said exactly what he thought of the man and the ‘uninteresting’ mail. 

‘Basically, I’ve just been told to mind my own.’ Doyle thought, watching Bodie stomping around the kitchen. Washing the crockery was unlikely to be necessary as it was all going to be broken with the mood he was in. Doyle downed the last of his tea and tested the pot for another. Finding it empty, he decided it was as good a time as any to go home and get some sleep.

 

Bodie awoke that afternoon to the sound of the hoover and his neighbour, Jo, singing at top whack in her estuary accent. He’d forgotten to put the chain on the door and she obviously hadn’t noticed the signs that he was home. It didn’t matter now, he was well enough rested. But he lay still for a while, wincing at the bum notes coming from his lounge and waiting for a half-hearted ‘morning glory’ to subside. 

Not that Jo excited his interest. Too young, too much trouble and far too like a little sister to contemplate getting involved with. Besides, he didn’t want to risk alienating the best cleaning lady he’d had. As she lived downstairs she didn’t mind his stupid hours, working around him and her kids. Nor his lifestyle. Other days when the chain wasn’t on, she’d hardly batted an eyelid as he and his latest conquest emerged from the bedroom or bathroom or...’No! I’m supposed to be sobering up,’ he reminded his rearoused body. 

And he appreciated that she needed the money. A single mum with two kids and struggling on ‘the social’, he was only too happy to pay her in cash. The kid needed the breaks. In exchange she turned the flat into a new pin every Friday, delivered or collected his laundry and brought a smile to his face even if his day hadn’t. Jo also seemed to take comfort from his living directly above her, as he got the impression that the father of her second child had been free with his fists. So, Bodie kept an eye out and Jo cleaned. It was win-win, all round.

Today, her opener was “Friggin’ ‘ell, Bodie! Put some trolleys on when I’m about, will ya?” as he came into the lounge and she pointed at his bathrobe. Bodie instinctively looked down and Jo had the first laugh of the day. “Gotcha!” 

When he found his dignity perfectly intact Bodie made a sneering face at his cleaner, plodding to the kitchen to brew up. Jo accepted a cuppa and shut down the vacuum while they slurped and Bodie ate toast. “So, how are we today my little Essex song bird?”

“Christ Bodie, I can’t understand when you’s all posh. Gimme it in Scouse.” She loved their verbal jousting, it provided light relief from her otherwise stressful life. Bodie and she often wished out loud for subtitles when they laid their native tongues on thickly, but it amused them both. 

Grinning, he repeated himself, Liverpudlian inflection to the fore. “Y'alright, love?”

“Nah,” the girl scoffed “liked it better when you was posh!”

CI5 man and cleaner spent the next hour in complementary manoeuvres from room to room, Bodie getting ready for work and Jo following on to clean the space as he finished with it. Not that he made too much mess, the young woman noted with satisfaction. Bodie was one of her easier employers and she suspected that he even tidied before she arrived, some weeks. Especially when he’d had a girlfriend staying and they’d used the entire flat for the sexual gymnastics that she could sometimes hear from below. She smiled to herself as she started up the hoover again. Hunky Bodie may be, but not really her type and too old. Besides, she wanted a fella who worked normal hours, came home to her and the kids and didn’t end up with lumps out of him on a regular basis. Jo had had enough of violence in her twenty-two years. 

Bodie had left her wages discreetly in an envelope which she pocketed and called out, ready to leave. “I‘m on me way babes, see ya later. Oh, an’ I found somefing important lookin’ in the bin. It’s ‘ere, on the table.” 

Jo was at the door when he discovered the offending mail. Bodie waved it at her and tried not to sound accusing. “Jo love, if I throw something away that’s where it should stay, please.”

She moved back toward him. “Sorry, it looked important so I ‘ad a quick look. An’ it is. You nearly lost that invite, you plonker!” she joked.

“It’s nothing, Jo. Don’t do that again.” Bodie screwed the whole thing up without checking inside. 

The girl saw red, believing that she’d saved her neighbour from disaster. “‘Ardly nuffin’! That’s an invite to a posh ‘do’, that is!” She stood in the centre of the lounge, annoyed by his lack of gratitude. 

“So, reading my post now? Knew it was a mistake to give you a key. If you want to keep this job, mind your own business in future.” 

The man sounded angry but Joanne Smith was no doormat, she’d handled bigger and tougher in her time. She marched her tiny frame across the room. “Oh, that’s nice, that is! You could say ‘‘fanks’! It was in your bin, all eggy an’ tea baggy an’...what is that?” She snatched the crumpled thing from him and peered at it. 

Distracted by her ballsy attitude, Bodie found himself answering. “Black pudding actually; fried breakfast this morning. I cooked for Doyle. That okay, is it? Allowed to have him over, am I? Milady” he finished, sarcastically.

“Right, won’t empty the bins in future then!” Jo stuffed the envelope back into his hand and huffed to the door. “You’ll ‘ave to do it yourself!”

“Fine by me! In fact, don’t bother coming at all. You’re sacked!”

“Suits me, too. I ‘ate dustin’ all those guns an’ knives on your wall. An’ don’t even get me started on that disgustin’ ‘fing!” She was pointing at the Kama Sutra wall frieze which he rather prided himself on owning. “‘Ere’s ya key!” she yelled, as the object was launched with fair accuracy at Bodie’s head. 

He caught it and the girl stormed out of his flat, slamming the door. 

“Stroppy mare!” Bodie shouted, in defiance. 

Silence reigned for five minutes until the doorbell rang. “Just met whatsit, your cleaning lady, on the stairs. Very nice.” Doyle hedged, handing Bodie the milk that had been sitting on the doorstep. 

Bodie took the hint and went to put the kettle on, calling back “Not your type, mate.” 

“And why’s that? She’s very cute, especially when she’s angry. At least I look for more than ‘has a pulse and is breathing’.” 

Fishing for information as to why the young woman had angrily accosted him on the stairs, he was taken aback by the protective big brother act which followed. Bodie loomed in the kitchen doorway and advised him, firmly “Don’t get me wrong, Jo’s a nice girl. But she’s got more than ten years on you and two kids round her neck. Leave well alone, will you? She’s a sweetheart and her life is complicated enough without you jumping in.” 

Doyle was now wondering if Bodie had come-on to his cleaning lady and didn’t want his partner muscling in. Bodie disappeared again, re-emerging with two mugs and a packet of biscuits which he plonked down. “And I’ve already stuffed up her day. Just sacked the poor love” he added, regretfully.

So, that was it! Doyle had heard the shouting from down in the lobby and Jo had hinted about the envelope in the bin. No more was said but he was curious as to what was worth losing a perfectly good cleaning lady over. And before they went to work, Detective Doyle found the controversial card, in the lounge wastepaper basket this time, and made sure of his subject.

 

The next day, things started out a bit strained and Bodie was quiet. 

On the way to see Cowley’s secretary, Doyle had heard him phoning ‘Gemma from the gym’ as his friend called the latest love interest. They were setting up a date and Bodie looked happier. Doyle indicated a bag of doughnuts that he’d bought, to his partner who was on the payphone in the hall, and Bodie gave a thumbs up. Then, returning from Betty’s room, Doyle caught a different tone to the caller’s voice; he was soft and apologetic. Trying not to listen too closely, he still had the whole of the corridor in which to witness the range of his friend’s most endearing and sweet personas.

“Yes. Really, really sorry Jo-Jo. Please come back. I have no idea where the launderette is, let alone how to work the bloody hoover. You know how much I love you, babe...It’s all forgotten. It doesn’t matter what you read, Jo, I still love you...Yes, I used to be with the army...No, I’m not going to the ‘do’...I know, but it’s difficult to explain...Oh, sweetheart! You won’t regret it, there’ll be extra in it for you...No, I don’t mean that!” He hiked his brows to Doyle and then rolled his eyes at the apparent effort he was putting in, persuading his cleaner into returning. “You’re wonderful, princess...Yep, I’ll drop the key by later. See you! Kiss, kiss!”

Back in the rest room, Bodie was smiling at the outcome of his efforts and tucking into the doughnuts. With a better atmosphere and the sweetener in place, Doyle thought it safe to commence ‘Operation Reunion’. He clicked his fingers to summon the image. “I knew I’d seen it before. That insignia, that’s your old mob; it was something regimental. What are you going to?”

His partner’s head shot up, sugar round his mouth and not best pleased. “Not only looking at my post, now you’re listening to my phone conversations. And you tell me I’m nosy!”

But Doyle pressed on. “What is it then, a dinner and dance?” he joked.

Bodie was doing his sullen, little boy act as he rejected another doughnut and wiped his hands. “Reunion dinner. No women, no dancing; just old boys bletherin’ about the old days. Not my cuppa tea and I’m not going.” Then he started on the paperwork with unusual haste.

“Shame, I took dancing lessons. Could have taken me as your ‘plus one’.” Doyle tried to jolly Bodie into changing his mind. “Mate! Passing up a swanky dinner at a top hotel? That’s not like you.” 

“How’d you...oh, t’riffic! Had a good look at the invite? Go searching in my bin, did you? Just get off my case, Doyle. It’s old news, bad news; bad medicine, that’s all that happens at these do’s. They go over the past. Should all be left there, in my opinion - in the past. It does my head in and I’m not going.”

Doyle was only a little shamefaced at the deception he’d just sprung. “I couldn’t help but notice the badge on the card. It’s very distinctive, that ‘winged dagger’...”

And this remark finally got the desired effect as Bodie rose to the provocation. “Popular misconception. They’re not wings and that’s not just some old dagger. I’ll have you know, it’s Excalibur wreathed in flames and the shield shape is that of a Crusader.” Bodie was, almost reverently, tracing the outline with a finger. “And that was just the cap badge.” Smacking his right upper arm, he finished “Had my parachute wings up, too. Proper bloody specialists, we were!” 

“And your motto was ‘Who dares, wins’, Bodie. Stop dodging the point. So, do you dare?” 

“Look Doyle, I’m not going. Alright?”

At that point several other squad members came in and Doyle decided to drop it for the time being. Having a go was one thing, but embarrassing his friend over something that he clearly felt so strongly about, was entirely another. In full sulk, Bodie stayed that way, working through the sheaf of files, diligently reading up on their next surveillance subject and making notes without his usual fuss. 

Doyle took a peek at him every now and again. He’d heard the passion in his partner’s voice, the pride and a kind of longing. A longing for what? To actually see some of the old faces? To reminisce over those old times? But there was also uncertainty and worry in the speech Bodie had given him. He was often cynical and dismissive of his time in the forces. Doyle knew his partner glossed over things he didn’t want to revisit. Visions and events so long bottled up that to uncork them might be too much to contemplate, especially in the very public arena of a reunion with other soldiers. 

He still did it now with CI5; they all did. Forgetting your injury or whatever fate had befallen another operative was how they all survived. It enabled them to get up next morning and face another bloody dangerous day. But he felt that if Bodie kept avoiding his army days as well, a time could come which took him back by force. The stopper on that bottle could blow and the fallout might be serious. He wouldn’t want that for him, was hopeful that if better times and people were remembered too, these could balance out the bad. The good stuff might even take precedence.

When the room emptied again, Bodie started washing mugs and plates before leaving for their duty; keeping busy to avoid further conversation. 

Doyle got up to dry, trying to get close to his partner, trying to reconnect. But he was having no truck with light banter or blatant hints to cheer up, so Doyle got to the point. “Bodie...it might help if you went” he tried, carefully.

“No.” 

“See Andy, talk over the good times. Get the bad ones off your chest.”

“No.”

“I get it, mate. But it mightn’t be as bad as you think.”

Silence. 

“You stubborn, selfish...! Have you stopped, for one minute, to think that he might want to see you, Bodie? You’re so busy thinking of yourself, how about thinking of Andy and the others?”

The washer upper stopped and looked at the dryer with surprise but couldn’t think of a reply. 

“Here.” Doyle slapped the damp tea towel onto the other’s shoulder and stalked off to grab his keys and jacket.

“What’s that for? I’m washing as fast as I can go.” Bodie was in innocent mode now, blinking those heart-melting eyelashes for effect. 

But that worked on birds, not Doyle. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Why? I’m washing.”

“It’s a towel, Bodie. Go on, throw it in!”

Turning from the sink, resplendent with a stripy tea towel scarf and suds dripping from his hands, Bodie recognised the frustration in his partner’s voice but wasn’t going to back down. “Look Doyle, you don’t know what you’re talking about. If I go, it’s going to be on my terms or not at all. Preferably, not at all!”

But, Doyle thought, Bodie had said ‘if’.

 

By Monday, his partner appeared to have forgotten the row and Doyle was relieved, as normal service was resumed. He thought better of continuing the campaign over the reunion, having missed ‘bouncy Bodie’. However, neither had reckoned on friendly fire from other directions.

Jerry Coleman was one of the oldest CI5 squad members. You never knew when you’d meet Jerry around HQ, being the shadowy spook that he was. He was rumoured to work with MI5 and 6, as well. Cowley used him for specialist undercover work which needed his age to carry it off. He’d successfully replicated a heart attack on a transcontinental flight, a few years ago and that led to the justifiable shooting of the assassin, Ramos. The man was a quiet hero in CI5 folklore.

So, when he approached Bodie as they all finished a briefing, it was a pleasure to see him. By the finish, the encounter wasn’t so pleasant all round and Coleman could easily have been offended by the younger operative’s attitude. He began by ribbing Bodie about buying the first round of drinks at their SAS reunion. Doyle thought he’d leave them to it and didn’t witness Bodie ignoring the comment, or, when the senior man tried to engage him in conversation about the event, that he rudely blanked him and walked away.

“There you are, Jerry’s going, you could double date.” Doyle encouraged, a while later as they looked over the briefing information. He received a stony glare in reply but decided to press the advantage of someone else raising the touchy subject, this time. “Why don’t you get your glad rags out and have the evening off? If this isn’t over, we can cover for you for one night.” 

“Doyle,” Bodie’s voice was agitated “I don’t need you, or Coleman, or anyone telling me what to do and what’s good for me, okay?” 

“But it’s a swish ‘do’, Bodie. Go on, fill-yer-boots at the Regiment’s expense.”

His partner turned on the spot, suddenly fired up with that deadly anger only infrequently used on his friend. “And I asked you, nicely, to drop it. I’m warning you, don’t push me on this.” Bodie shoved a finger into Doyle’s chest. 

“Okay, mate. There’s no need to be like that.”

“There’s every need, ‘mate’. Just leave it out!” Bodie hissed before he shouldered Doyle aside and stormed from the room, just as Cowley returned bearing the very slip of paper that he didn’t usually hand out freely. 

He stood aside, watching his man thunder down the corridor and then walked to Doyle with that expression which meant he had a fair idea of what was going on. Cowley seemed to know everything that happened within HQ and outside, too. “Well, was that about what I think it was?” he asked, pointedly. 

“The SAS reunion?”

“Yes, thought it might be. Coleman’s just told me; he’s concerned about Bodie’s reaction to it. What do you think?”

“I think it’d be good for him but he doesn’t want to know. I’ve tried, sir.”

“Want me to have a word?”

“If you think it would do any good. Seems to me his mind’s made up, though. Wouldn’t want you to be on the end of his short fuse, right now.”

“That temper of Bodie’s.” Their boss shook his head, knowingly. “Well, give him this. Thought he could do with a day off, after it and if he takes offence then he can come and take it out on me.” 

Cowley held out a leave chit but it was politely rebuffed. “I’d rather not, all the same, sir. I think he’s had enough do-gooding from me. Sorry.”

“Aye, maybe you’re right, 4.5. I’ll try again with him nearer the time. On your way now.” 

 

That week was full-on, alternating surveillance on their target with other units and chasing his contacts, deals and associates. Feeling like they were in a revolving door. There was just about time to share information, keep the log up to date and then go home to eat and fall into bed before the merry-go-round started again. Bodie, however, seemed to be quite happy with the relentless work schedule. He’d had a couple of fantastic dates with Gemma. A nice meal, smooch in a nightclub and she was persuaded to stay the night with no effort at all. 

What Doyle didn’t realise was that work and a new girlfriend were keeping his partner’s mind from unwelcome thoughts; leaving him too tired to do anything other than sleep, when on his own. Otherwise, Bodie was aware of a creeping feeling of dread, an inner voice that told him to be wary, to take care. Something was happening to his usual level of self-assurance, the balance that kept things just the way Bodie liked them. He knew what it might be but didn’t dare acknowledge the unease in case it occupied him too much. And the next time he became more aware of it, he hadn’t got the safety valve of work to help him. A day off was strangely unwelcome at this moment. Doyle was out with a girlfriend, so he couldn’t annoy him in the same way he’d been irritating Bodie. 

Bodie managed to sleep late and occupy a few hours with breakfast then a stroll to the gym, where a punch bag took the edge off his pent-up feelings. But during a bath back at home, he couldn’t stop his mind wandering over the taboo reunion. ‘Now Cowley and Coleman have weighed in, too. They’d probably understand but Doyle, what does he know? I don’t ag Goldilocks about going over his past in the police, do I? Let sleeping dogs lie.’ he thought to himself ‘Don’t wake them up by poking them with a stick!’ 

He couldn’t face the hours until their next shift without some distraction, so he called Gemma to see if she was up for an afternoon out.

 

Standing at the door of Doyle’s mews home, Bodie played a reveille with the door bell. It sounded much more cheery than he actually felt but thought it might deflect some of the interest he’d been attracting over the last week. Doyle appeared at an upper window, waving the phone receiver, so Bodie returned to the Capri and waited in the warm. The cold had seemed to seep into his bones during the short time outside.

He felt groggy, yet, at times, almost as if he was floating. He hadn’t slept well despite last night’s frantic, urgent sex in the hallway of Gemma’s flat. He’d wanted her to make him feel alive but nigh on scaring the woman with his strength only seemed to anaesthetise him further. When they made it to bed, Bodie had tried to be more intimate, less self-absorbed. Even then he couldn’t stop this looming feeling of vacancy, a sort of detachment which he recognised. He knew what it meant. It worried him. ‘I can’t let it catch me, it can’t.’ he warned himself.

Leaving in the early hours, pleading a duty call and the responsibility of picking Doyle up, he’d gone home. If he was going to throw a wobbly it couldn’t be in the bed of someone he didn’t know that well. Didn’t want it to be front of anyone. Didn’t want it to come at all but he could feel it threatening. And Gemma had looked relieved. He thought now, that she probably wouldn’t give him the chance to make it up to her. ‘Damn! Damn! This is exactly why I don’t go; don’t think about those things.’ Bodie lectured, not knowing if it was for himself or Doyle. ‘It makes me want to hurt people, hurt myself. Better to keep it in.’ 

Doyle emerged, hunched into his aviator jacket and carrying some dry cleaning on a hanger. Obviously they had a stop to make on the way to HQ. The grunted early morning repartee made Bodie feel a bit more human and gave him something else to hide behind as he drove toward the high street. He went for a paper while Doyle took the clothing into his launderette. The morning’s news wasn’t headline-grabbing but the footie results were distracting Bodie when his passenger returned.

“Here,” Doyle was holding out the ticket to him.

“What do I want that for?” Bodie questioned, booting the car away from the kerb with a squeal of tyres.

“It’s yours. Your DJ and bow tie, you loaned them to me a couple of weeks ago. I got G‘n’T on it. So, my treat. Getting it cleaned for you.”

“Oh ta, you shouldn’t have. Won’t be...” His voice died away as he caught the smug face next to him, realising what Doyle was up to.

“That’s okay. It’ll be ready well before Friday. Plenty of time for Jo to press the shirt and you to get some beauty sleep.”

“Thanks Ray. But seriously, I won’t need it.”

‘Ray’, he’d used the first name. Bodie usually did that when he needed to make a more personal impact. Doyle watched his driver carefully all day. He’d noticed how drained Bodie was looking and that the fight seemed to be going out of him when it came to the touchy subject of the invitation. This almost worried his partner more than the denial and outbursts of anger had done. He wondered if he really had pushed Bodie too far on this one.

When Bodie got home, Jo had done the cleaning as usual and also left him a message. She’d thrown away the wrecked envelope but resurrected its crumpled invitation card. Had blotted out the worst of the stains and seemed to have ironed it, then placed it on the mantelpiece. With the pressure of work, he’d forgotten it was still here.

Alongside was the biggest chocolate from the large box of Black Magic which he’d left with her wages. Bodie smiled at his neighbour apologising too, in her own sweet way. He put his fish and chip supper on a tray, opened a beer and sat down to eat with the Liverpool match. It almost distracted him from the nagging that was swirling inside his head. 

But when he’d put the rich, dark chocolate into his mouth, it brought back the worry, frustration and bitterness. ‘Why are they all being so insistent? Pushing me to something that’s just not on. But maybe Doyle is right, it could be okay after all. Maybe I should go?’ he wondered. ‘No, he doesn’t know what he’s asking me to do. It wasn’t just one outfit, one incident. It’s all of them, all my life since my teens, pitching up in Africa. I can’t do it, I can’t go back.’

Bodie came to where he’d stayed, stretched out on the couch. The TV was hissing, his watch told him it was gone 1am. When he moved, his arm shot with pins and needles as it recovered from being used as a pillow. He’d slept for hours but felt no better; felt drugged and light headed. As he walked to the bedroom, the invitation card caught his attention. He picked it up and looked at it broodingly. ‘This has to stop. It’s exhausting, getting me down. Doyle, Jo, Gemma, me - how many more is this going to hurt?’ Then he tucked it away. ‘‘Out of sight, out of mind’, as my Mam would’ve said.’ 

 

And for a few days the invitation on the card didn’t even figure in Bodie’s thoughts, hidden away as it was. He got on with the increasingly close surveillance job the squad had on this target. Benny was pulled in as he knew the guy well. The drug baron was a longstanding figure on the edges of Benny’s shady world and they’d wanted him for some time. Now it seemed the opportunity was near as all efforts were poured into finding the evidence and they were sure the proof was in his home. 

“3.7!” 

Passing his controller’s office door which was open the merest crack, Bodie wondered yet again how the old man managed to do that. Know where you were and what you were doing without actually being able to see you. Doyle reckoned that he had the place secretly bugged and rigged with cameras so small that no one was aware of them except Cowley. Murphy was more of the opinion that their boss had some sort of personal radar implanted into him during his MI5 days. Others thought Betty, his secretary, spied for him. Whatever, it was an uncanny and extremely annoying talent which seemed to exert itself just when his men were either up to no good or trying to duck out of duties. Bodie widened the gap with his shoulders, allowing his head to show but no more as he was hoping to fool Cowley into thinking he was busy.

“Sir?”

“Come in and shut the door, Bodie.” 

‘Bugger!’ the man thought, opening it and sliding inside. ‘I know what he wants and I’m not playing ball.’

“The leave chit. I’m going to offer it to you again. I don’t expect you’ll take it but Coleman’s got one for the same reason, so it’s your due.” 

He was holding out the slip of paper and Bodie could see Betty’s typewritten neatness finished off with Cowley’s signature. He considered then took the authorisation, knowing that he couldn’t hack another row or explanation of why he was, apparently, being so difficult. “Thank you sir, that’s much appreciated. They can be late nighters, these things.”

A flicker of surprise passed across Cowley’s face but he covered it and grunted with satisfaction. “Good. Well, enjoy your evening, 3.7.” He paused, thought better of making more of the sensitive subject and reverted to being boss. “Make the most of the rest because this drugs ring operation looks like it’s closing in. On your way, laddie.” 

Bodie got out quickly and paused outside the door, having made sure that it was shut this time. He didn’t even look at the piece of paper again but hurriedly stuffed it into a back pocket, thinking ‘Right, fishing on Saturday, then. That’ll teach the Cow to be too free with his leave chits, for a change.’

But the reminder was untimely. From then on something was in motion and Bodie could feel himself sliding slowly but inevitably toward a conclusion. ‘I just have to hold on.’ he told himself later. ‘You can’t let this out, not even in front of Doyle. On your own or not at all. You were doing better, you just have to hold on.’

 

Then came the night their surveillance subject was taken. They could tell he was wise to their operation and was trying to avoid the tail, looking like he was going to bail out. 3.7/4.5 unit were in the buggy boo, parked in the lane behind the house. Jax and Anson occupied the home opposite, watching from an upstairs window. Benny got the shortest straw of all, the shrubbery of a next door garden. He’d complained and argued but they’d all argued back that he was the drugs man and needed to be the first one in as he’d know best where the stash, money and evidence were likely to be hidden. This discussion, on the way to the stakeout, provided a moment of respite for Bodie. He had looked around the van at his bantering colleagues, thinking ‘This is good, this is what matters.’

When it happened Bodie was zoned out, feet up. He could hear Doyle and the others keeping contact but it all sounded far off and garbled, like he was hearing it from underwater. 

“Bodie! Move!” Doyle hollered at him, to shake him out of his stupor. 

Their target had slipped out of the back exit and was making off. Doyle, nearest to the side door, was up from his camping chair and outside before Bodie had even twigged what was happening. It had taken all his reserves to get himself out of the van they’d been occupying for hours and draw his sidearm. Doyle signalled the direction he was taking and Bodie ran in the other. Legs stiff, brain trying to catch up with the situation, not really inhabiting his body as it hared over the parkway behind the house, he’d finally hunted his quarry down. At the shouted warning that he was armed and would use it, the running man halted, turned and put his hands up in surrender to Bodie. The arrest was made. He frisked him quickly and, lacking cuffs, put him in an arm lock. 

The others hadn’t yet converged on their position and, while forcing him back across the park, the guy stopped faking his easy submission. Before Bodie knew what he was up to his captive stooped, pulling a flick knife from his sock and twisted in the restraint. The blade cut across Bodie’s arm, forcing him to loose the hold. He heard the swish of the wicked edge and just ducked in time to avoid his face being slashed as well. Then the prisoner was off, back the way they’d come. Bodie shouted another warning that he’d fire but knew letting off a shot in the dark could hit the others, so he charged after the man. 

He gripped his arm where he could feel blood flowing into his sleeve. There was no pain from the wound, he hadn’t even made a sound as he was cut but, from feeling numb and disconnected, suddenly the red mist of anger descended and his body began to thump with adrenalin. There was shouting up ahead and Bodie slowed, sure that the idiot had run straight into Doyle or one of the others and been re-arrested. They’d give Bodie hell at first for letting the guy get away but at least he was taken, now.

Bodie emerged from the dark to see a group of figures in a pool of lamplight. The target was in front of him, being manhandled by one of the team. The others were surrounding them in a semicircle, guns trained and barking warnings. Then he stopped suddenly, horrified at what was now clear. The guy wasn’t detained at all. Instead, he had someone by force, their arms wide in surrender, legs splayed. The captor was brandishing the knife at the team. 

“Back off! Get away or I’m gonna cut ‘im. I’m gonna knife ‘im, so get back!”

It was Doyle. Bodie caught a glimpse of his familiar cheekbone as the street light seemed to turn the curly hair into a halo around his grimacing face. The blade was now at his throat, mouth panting and eyes wide. 

‘I’ve caused this. I’ve given this knife-wielding bastard Ray, on a plate. If he gets hurt, if he’s stabbed, it’ll be my fault!’ Bodie berated himself, taking the scene in more acutely as if the world was in sharp focus again. They were all occupied with one another, the guy hadn’t seen Bodie, it was up to him to turn this around. Jax and Anson were trying to persuade the knife man, trying to talk him down. He wasn’t listening, shouting that he wouldn’t let up until they lowered their guns. It was a stand off. Bodie caught Benny’s eye as he ran up and skidded to a halt and he was scared, he could see it. Benny knew this guy and he was scared for Doyle.

Bodie decided what he needed to do. This wouldn’t end, it would turn out badly unless he did something decisive. The second the weapon was flourished again, he launched himself forward, anger making him fly, fear for Doyle making him fearless. He barrelled at the man who was holding his partner, put his head and shoulders down and hit him hard, low down on his back. ‘This has to work; there won’t be a second chance.’ Bodie thought as he made the dirtiest rugby tackle of all time.

As he hit, he grabbed the guy’s knife arm and wrenched it downward, taking him by surprise. Winded, the captor and captive were propelled forward but only so far. The target arched from the CI5 man’s full weight, he let Doyle go and Bodie caught a flash of silver as the weapon flew to their side. As long as Ray was away from this guy, Bodie didn’t care what happened now. He kept tight hold this time, grabbing the other arm, pulling hard and stretching the man’s body with his. The yelling in his ears was the captive’s but the bellow of rage came from Bodie, from deep within.

Taking him down, Bodie brought his knee up into the man’s back and he pulled the shoulders in their sockets. There was a popping sensation and a scream of pain rang out. But the agent was no longer aware of his actions or the consequences. He was yelling, spitting vitriol, unheeding of the prisoner’s compliance and the dislocation he’d inflicted. The man’s face was mashed into the ground as his captor knelt on him, shouting his fury. Then, still wrenching one arm, Bodie unnecessarily upped the ante by drawing his gun and raising it, about to pistol whip the figure.

Suddenly Jax was hauling at him, trying to pull him off but he couldn’t combat the power that was driving the man on. Unknown to Bodie, Anson still had a gun trained on them and Benny was checking Doyle, helping him up. They paused at the chaotic scene and Doyle ran over. He took hold of his partner’s fists, yelling at him to stop but it wasn’t until he stuck his face into Bodie’s and their eyes met that he finally got through. “Bodie, don’t! He’s had enough, let him go. Now!” 

Bodie dropped the figure like a sack of spuds. Pushing himself away, chest heaving and wiping spit from his mouth, he backed off, his partner warning him with a straight arm. Doyle tried to roll the prone form before the others came in and took over. Benny and Jax got the man up and away, aware that he was bloodied and injured but with more care than they felt. Anson was off looking for the knife.

Doyle stood rubbing his neck and looking at his partner with a mixture of horror and compassion. Bodie was bent over, hands on his knees, coughing and wheezing. Putting a hand on his shoulder, Doyle felt a tremor run through the man’s frame. Unable to keep his balance, Bodie squatted, hunkered down and put his gun on the ground. He dropped his head, it was swimming and buzzing.

“Bodie, it’s okay. It’s over now.” 

The figure looked up, street light glistening on his sweating face. “He nearly... I let him go, Ray. I let him have you.” There was anger, fear and pain in his eyes as he looked at the marks on his partner’s neck.

“It’s alright. I’m okay. But this isn’t good, mate; you almost killed him back there.”

“Yeah, and he almost killed you. It was my fault...my doing!” Bodie pushed up, steadying himself against the other. He was shaking, his sleeve slashed and blood running down his hand to drip from the end of his fingers. Gripping the area tightly, he trudged away. 

Doyle watched the first few steps then caught up with him. “No, it’s my fault too. I’ve been pushing you too hard over the reunion. I understand now, I went too far. Sorry.” 

A look between them spoke volumes.

“You’re okay, I wasn’t concentrating so he got away and then he...I blame myself.” Slowing over the next few steps, Bodie became impassioned again. “It’s what you do at these reunions, too. Blame yourself. ‘Cos you’re standing there in a DJ with a drink in your hand, having a laugh, about to eat a lavish dinner and they’re not...because they’re gone...It’s just not right.”

“I know, I can see that. I’ll stop. You don’t have to go, not if it’s going to do this to you.” A small grin settled it. “Better get that looked at.” 

They both surveyed the wrecked leather sleeve, the bloodied and clenched hands.

“Think it’s just a nick. Doesn’t feel too bad. The jacket’s ruined, though. Shame, I’ve always liked this one.”

“Well, I haven’t. Grey just isn’t your colour, makes you look all washed out.”

“Oi, who made you head of the fashion police? Anyway, that grey sweatshirt of yours does the same to you...”

The banter was back! Despite the scare, the bungled arrest and injury to the prisoner, which they’d have to explain to Cowley, all was well again between them. Doyle breathed easier. 

As he took off his grey leather jacket to allow the doctor to see the wound, Bodie reassured himself. ‘Right, that was it. It’s over now, I can start to get back to normal. No more.’ 

 

On Thursday, Bodie was returning from the dry cleaners with the DJ when Jo called to him from the downstairs lobby. “‘Ello Babes! You’ll look a treat in that. Always do, in black.”

Bodie turned and went back down a few steps to see the girl’s grinning face. “Ta sweetheart, but I’m not going to use it right now. I’m going fishing this weekend. Don’t think they’ll appreciate a dinner jacket and bow tie, do you?” he joked, trying to deflect further attention from the discontinued subject. “Anyway, can’t do the tie on my own. Where’s your Mum when you need her, eh?” 

“Oh, I can do ‘em! Gran showed me when I was a kid, on me Granddad. ‘S’easy when you know ‘ow.”

“Ta, but I won’t be going, Jo.”

“Gramps says it’s good to get togever wiv’ your mates if you was a soldier. He goes to the Cenotaph every year on Remembrance Sunday. Says that remembrin’ ain’t just about the bad bits but the good times, as well. ‘Honourin’ the blokes that didn’t come back, because they paid the price that kept us free’, he says. Well, if you change your mind, y’know where I am.” Bodie was gazing at her intently and there was the look she’d seen when he returned the flat key. She hated the way he seemed to be so sad at the moment. “Come ‘ere you great, daft bugger!” Suddenly, Jo skipped up the steps between them and threw her arms around his neck. For such a tiny thing, the fierceness of her hug took Bodie by surprise. 

Hands full of dry cleaning and shopping, he dropped them and lifted her off her feet. It wasn’t hard, she was as light as a feather. She laughed, throwing her head back and the sound was happiness itself. He felt a lump in his throat, at how it made him feel and realised that this is what he’d wanted the other night. He hadn’t merely needed sex from Gemma, he’d needed to feel close to someone, ‘real’ again. Real enough to pull back the growing remoteness from those around him. And for that moment with Jo, he felt real and solid with his feet on the ground once more.

She made a fuss, making sure the jacket wasn’t creased and then waved goodbye, wiggling her bejeaned backside across the entrance hall. Bodie watched her go as he ascended to his floor, pleased that he and the girl were back on their usual terms. Inside his flat, he went through the motions, putting away his shopping and the DJ in it’s plastic ‘To be brought out another time.’ he vowed; making some tea, raiding the biscuit tin out of habit and flopping down in front of the telly. But Jo’s words were still in his head. She had no idea what weight they’d had to him and at that precise moment. And this simple truth from a civilian; a girl, who had no understanding of what it was like but who’d listened to her granddad about honouring the fallen and seeing his mates, those who’d helped him through, really hit home. And that hug. No one had held him like that, since his Mam. It was sweet and warm, yet sharp and painful at the same time. It reminded him of other things he’d managed to forget, people and places he didn’t want to revisit. Jo had hugged him not with passion, not merely out of love, but to help him feel better.

During that evening Bodie was restless, couldn’t settle. 

He ate dinner and mooched the few streets to The Scarsdale where he had a couple of pints in his own company. He wasn’t so worried about being alone, now, but knew he wasn’t up to anything more tonight. Watching the smart ‘city crowd’ getting pissed on chardonnay and nipping regularly into the loos in pairs, to, he was certain, do lines of coke; he contemplated busting them himself or calling Benny for back up, but let them be. He knew that if he got stuck in anything might happen and that, nobody needed. They were loud and flashing wads of cash about but weren’t doing any real harm. And the pushers were the ones you needed to nick; try and stop the supply, trace it back to the source of import if you could. But that was useless in his limited experience; it was just a drop in an overflowing ocean. Doyle had taught him that. Doyle, who’d been so persistent, pushing Bodie to go to the reunion.

Annoyed that, even though his partner had backed off, it was still getting to him and that Jo had unintentionally added to it, Bodie walked home.

The flat was too quiet. Jo was at her mum’s and the bloke upstairs worked nights, so Bodie searched through his collection for something good and loud to drown out his thoughts. Stuff the old bat on his floor, he’d tackle her if she complained! The Beatles were too revered to work. Quo? Not serious enough. The Planets Suite was in his hand when he saw an angry child’s face scowling at him. ˢ

The opening guitar and drum rhythms reminded him of automatic gunfire; the child’s stare, of the kids that would follow them on patrol, asking for sweets or regurgitating the insults and propaganda they’d heard their elders using, trying to goad the British soldiers into a reaction. ‘You stupid idiot,’ he told himself ‘what did you put this on for?’ And he was reaching for the stop button when the ardent protest lyrics of ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ finally did it.

A long hot shower covered the outpouring, as Bodie was forced to remember. He rolled from one into another; Africa, the Regulars, Paras and SAS...he could smell cordite, his mouth was dry...cold metal in his hands as he ran...running, always running...breath and pulse pounding loud in his ears...blood and dust and sweat... 

He cringed as bomb blasts sounded in his head, then rocked as the pressure waves hit him, again and again. Steadying himself, he ducked as bullets whizzed and whined past. He tasted bitter regret at some of the things he’d done and seen, and wept for his losses, thumping the tiled wall in pain. But more importantly he also laughed out loud with sheer joy, grinned like a Cheshire cat and felt strong, loyal hands reach out to pull him upward. Felt the fond, lasting bonds of brotherhood. 

In the release that followed, Bodie was surprised to find himself upright, heart hammering, shuddering, but braced against the shower walls. ‘At least I’m not down. It’s not gonna pull me under.’ Unsteadily, he managed to drag himself from the shower. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he poured an enormous scotch and considered that a bender could get him some sleep. Then he walked away, knowing that it could also make him worse. Hair still dripping onto his back and shoulders, he sat on the bed and downed the triple; exhausted, but feeling lighter than he had done in days. 

Looking around, the pine chest beckoned and he went to a drawer. His cuff links had been a 21ˢͭ birthday gift from the family, the silver shapes adorned with the swirly letters ‘WAPB’. And, for the umpteenth time in his life, he wondered at his parents landing him with not just one, but three names that he didn’t use. Something that he’d bought for himself, a midnight blue silk cummerbund, was beneath in its’ own box. He got that out too, thinking ‘Just in case...’ Revealed at the bottom of the drawer was a small photo album. Bodie hesitated but finally retrieved it and sat down again. This couldn’t be as bad as the random, flickering images in his head had been. 

He and Andy washing their mess tins, in a Brecon’s stream during the SAS selection phase. They’d been tight ever since those gruelling, life-changing months. He, Andy, Keller and Taffy, Bodie’s first patrol, in camouflage and face paint, arms around each other in comradeship. He smiled, remembering their boast that the patrol was made up of two Englishmen, a half Irishman and a Welshman. Bar the Scotsman, they were almost a ‘living joke’. And Keller, in latter days, gutting a brace of rabbits they’d snared for a truly memorable supper eaten in the shelter of a ruined barn. The last pictured the whole troop with Cpt. Statham, proudly posing before a formal mess dinner in their dress monkey suits. No medals, no outward signs of glory from his day but he remembered alright. ‘How could I forget? Those were the days. I should honour them.’

Decisively, Bodie strode to the lounge, put his hand behind the mantelpiece mirror and withdrew the hidden invitation card. Tapping it thoughtfully, he noted that it was far too late, or early, but tried anyway. An answer machine took his call and Bodie made use of it.

 

The next evening saw him drawing up outside the hotel. He paid the driver, left the cab and paused on the busy pavement, the theatre-going crowd parting around his static figure. There was a small, tight knot in his gut but Bodie steeled himself and climbed the steps, fishing in the DJ’s inner pocket for the card. Feeling optimistic at making it thus far, it only then dawned on him that he didn’t know if his RSVP had been found on the answer machine. Bodie paused and considered turning back until a Doyle-like voice in his head goaded him onward, ‘So, do you dare?'

Inside the foyer a desk was set up for the reunion and he approached, holding out his battered invite as proof of entry but prepared to blag his way in if he had to. “Hello. Bodie? I’m afraid I only RSVP’d yesterday.”

A regimental secretary, as his name badge announced him to be, took the card without complaint. “Oh, that’s alright Mr Bodie. I have lists here that haven’t even replied. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to keep tabs on you all. Trying to get hold of deep sea divers is hell.” The man ticked his name off and returned the card. “An easy to find name. There can’t be many ‘Bodies’. We keep a number of place settings in reserve, in case some turn up. I’ll let the staff know. Straight through,” he pointed “the Burlington and Brook Suites, in the corner. The smaller has the bar, the larger for dining. Have a pleasant evening, Mr Bodie.” 

‘Right, you’re in.’ He congratulated himself, with a sigh. ‘Check your coat then take it one step at a time.’

Bodie was just pocketing the cloakroom ticket and fiddling with his bow tie again when a boisterous shout rent the air. “As I live ‘n’ breathe! Doubleyoo, aye, pee, bodeee!” 

Pounding feet suddenly halted, culminating in fifteen stone of muscle landing squarely on his shoulders and a man hoisted himself onto Bodie’s back. Jolted out of the quiet in the hotel lobby, Bodie staggered, grinning, while the whooping figure beat him on the chest and made enough noise to wake the dead. “Bridgie, you old bastard!” Bodie replied, dumping the man back onto his feet and turning to face his smiling attacker. “How the hell, are you?” 

Strawbridge’s hands were like the proverbial shovel and a pumping handshake followed while they looked each other up and down and laughed. By now the entire reception area was gawping in their direction. Sobering up in the formal surroundings, the two finally straightened their clothing while trading more hushed insults. “Where’d you spring from, you smelly jungle rat?”

“Takes one to know one, you great oaf. Nearly broke my neck, just then!”

“Well, it wouldn’t show much on that ugly hide of yours, Bodie.”

“I repeat myself, Bridgie: takes one, to know one.” Bodie smirked at the closest thing he had to a brother in forces days. “Flamin’ hell, you scrub up okay, for an oil rigger!”

“It’s like looking in a mirror, mate. ‘Course, you’re such a city slicker nowadays, you’ve probably forgotten what hard work feels like.”

“Shut up and let’s get a drink, we’re going to need it. What’re you having?” Bodie threw an arm around Andy Strawbridge’s sizeable frame.

“Just a tonic, ta; better pace myself. There’ll be wine with each course, then the port, brandy. Too much booze and I don’t mix well, these days...” 

Bodie had to differ for the moment, as a double vodka with his tonic was much needed. ‘Once the edge is off, I’ll feel better.’ he told himself, as they made for the bar.

“Cheers, Andy.”

“Your health, Bodie. Really good to see you, mate.”

There were men of assorted ages in the room and more arriving. Bodie could see his last commanding officer schmoozing the old guard, so didn’t try to catch his eye for the moment. The men who’d served long before him deserved their time with today’s officers as much as he did. He wanted to speak to him but it could wait; anyway, Bodie didn’t feel quite ready for that meeting, yet. When he was free Statham would find him, he was fairly sure of that. 

Bodie also saw Jerry Coleman in the distance and promptly ordered, then delivered, a double scotch. The handover and apology were graciously received with an understanding that told him Jerry hadn’t taken offence last week. Bodie put money behind the bar for his colleague to have several more, then he and Strawbridge drifted toward the boards set up for the event where news of both those serving and decommissioned was posted. As Bodie put it to his friend “Let’s get this it over with, now. Why does everyone get to reminiscing after the dinner, when we’re all too bevvied up to handle it rationally?”

The news was much as he expected, even in its’ censored state and he knew more than most of the civvies here, did. Operations they’d endured in Northern Ireland continued to this day and international terrorism was on the rise. There had been the televised SAS action during the Iranian embassy siege hostage rescue, in London. That had really brought the Regiment to public prominence and, apparently, applications to join had rocketed. More recently, the Regiment had been active during the Falklands Islands situation. Although this time, the SBS was gaining more attention. A roll call of those who had perished in action since the last reunion, as well as in Civvy Street, drew their eyes. This seemed to convince the pair to talk about the present rather than the names they’d recognised on the boards.

“How’s things in the civil service, then?”

“It pays the bills. It’s not all glamour, you know. Sometimes wish I was out on the rigs; there’s money in oil, isn’t there?”

“Yeah, ‘cept it’s bloody dangerous. But you know me, never was one to take the easy route. Not a cushy number like you’ve got.”

“Oh, it has its moments. Still, got a good man at my back. He’s worth a lot. You know that.”

“Yeah! We were the dog’s do-dahs in our day. I heard about Keller. Something to do with your lot, wasn’t it?”

“He did me over and sold out, Andy. He’s only seeing the inside of the glasshouse, for a while. Anyway, how you doing?”

“You heard that Rachel left me? It was the drinking.” he sighed. “Still, I feel better with just me and the dog. I manage the rigging two weeks on then I’m out of the way of society for the next two; where I can’t do anyone but myself any harm, if I decide to kick off.”

“Is it really that bad, mate?”

“Oh it can be. No wonder Rache’ doesn’t wanna know. Oh, hell! Fraser’s here.”

“Damn! That prick was one good reason I don’t come to these do’s. I’ll trade with you, mate. I’ll stop you getting hammered, if you’ll stop me from punching his lights out.”

“Deal.”

A lean cultured-looking man in his mid thirties strolled up to the pair with an air of self confidence that made Bodie’s usual demeanour look positively reserved. “Evening, ladies! Thought it was men only, tonight?”

“Can you hear a noise, Bodie? Sort of a high pitched whine?” Strawbridge was looking around them, pointedly.

“It’s more like an incessant, annoying drone.” His friend, just as earnestly, regarded the ceiling for incoming. 

“Oh, ha ha. Didn’t think we’d see you at one of these, Bodie. Got fed up with playing at policemen?”

He gave the object of disdain full benefit of his dead stare. “Bugger off, Fraser or you’ll be having a conversation with my fist.”

“Now that’s more like the Bodie I know and hate. Don’t ‘spose you’re in the chair?” Fraser offered an empty glass. “No? You, Bridget?”

“On yer bike. We’ve got better things to do than drink with you.”

“Right-o. Looks like proceedings are starting, anyway. I’m up near the old man. Be seeing you later, girls!”

“Not if we see you first.” They watched their Nemesis swagger away to cosy up to the top brass. “Tosspot! Round one of hostilities to us?” Strawbridge wondered.

“Maybe. He’ll be back, knowing him. Hold me back, Bridgie.” 

Strawbridge held his glass up to the other’s again. “Bodie, mate, I’ve really missed this kinda craic!”

A gong sounded. That meant dinner was imminent. Strawbridge, Bodie knew, had kept up with his past masters despite the effects that serving continued to have on his afterlife. His old friend was quite equal to, what Bodie saw as, the next trial before them. Personally, he wasn’t so sure how he was going to manage the next few hours but Andy’s presence was helping. Bodie took a deep breath and was about to follow in when another familiar voice cut into his reverie. 

“Hello, Bodie.”

Andy grinned at him knowingly, made his excuses and went to speak to another ex comrade. As he backed away, the imposing person of their former captain was revealed.

“Sir.” Bodie managed to utter, mouth suddenly dry. 

“Bodie!” Statham exclaimed, feigning disappointment.

Bodie broke into grin, nerves starting to dissipate in the face of someone who knew him well; too well. “Hello, Guy.” He pushed his hand into the one being offered and they shook, warmly. Bodie felt the years catching up but this time edged with regret that he hadn’t, at least, maintained contact with a man who’d been more than his C.O. Guy Statham and his wife had seen Bodie through some difficult times and he owed them his gratitude. For now though, he stuck with what he could manage. Looking the man’s dress uniform over, Bodie recognised the subtle changes. “Congratulations, Guy. I see they’ve seen fit to shake up the ranks, at last.”

The officer touched the recently added major’s insignia, chuckling at Bodie’s familiar irreverence. “Thanks, I decided to accept. Getting on a bit now, old chap and Helen deserves less worry. I’ve put her through enough after all these years.” He regarded his former Sergeant, knowing he was uncomfortable in this setting and tried to help. “How are things with you; still the usual exuberance? Not letting the side down, I hope?”

“I do my best. George Cowley can be almost as hard a task master as you were.”

“Good. Wouldn’t expect anything less of you. I see him occasionally, you know. Always remind him that my loss was his gain, when you went over to the dark side.” Statham joked, thinly disguising a genuine message. 

“And Cowley knows it. Don’t worry, I make sure of that. I haven’t forgotten everything.” Both men were silently appreciating this exchange when the dinner gong sounded again. Looking round, they realised their conversation was holding up proceedings and Statham steered Bodie towards the main room. 

“Guy, I wanted to...”

“Not now, old man. Afterwards, eh? Enjoy the meal and we’ll talk again later. I’ll find you after we’ve got this out of the way. I mean it.” The officer gave him a persuasive look before patting Bodie’s shoulder and making off to the top table. Bodie watched him go and knew that it was time to remember even more. 

The meal began with soup, followed by fish, then a crown of lamb. Food as fine as Bodie remembered in the officers’ mess. A dessert of charlotte russe preceded the final course of cheese, celery and fruit. There was sherry with the soup, white wine with the fish, red with the main course and a dessert wine, before the port and brandy were served. 

Bodie kept a weather eye to Andy’s glasses during the meal, not liking the feeling but having struck a genuine deal with his friend. He was saddened to hear of the man’s struggles but was also pragmatic enough to know it happened. He needn’t have worried. Strawbridge was judicious, discreetly placing the water tumbler to the fore of his place setting, only tasting each wine and covering them with his hand when the waiter hovered for a top up. Andy grinned at Bodie’s glances and passed him the red when it was served. “Here, don’t want to overdo things. You always could take the demon drink better than me.”

Whether by luck or someone’s judgement, possibly Statham’s, Bodie thought, they’d been seated together. On Bodie’s right was a man in his fifties who’d been in well before himself. Conversation flowed fairly easily between them and Norris, now a publican, had plenty of stories about this part of his life. That happily avoided too much service reminiscence and, apart from acknowledging where they’d each been based, which campaigns served in and countries toured, the older man didn’t pry any further into Bodie’s past. 

He gave his current occupation as the time-honoured ‘civil service’ and Norris accepted that, with an unspoken understanding of what the title probably meant. Bodie actually found himself quite comfortable during the previously dreaded dinner chat and it was balanced by Strawbridge reassuringly chipping in from his side. In the old days, he mused, the officer’s wives and girlfriends would then retire to the drawing room while the men stayed on, smoking and drinking port, for an hour or more. There had also been post dinner entertainment like bezique, backgammon and bridge. But this was a reunion of former soldiers and there was the business of remembrance to deal with. 

Hush naturally fell when the M.C. announced the speeches. These were blessedly short but gave Bodie some time to clear his head before proceedings ended with a thought provoking tradition. As he looked around the assembled old boys, he knew this custom had a different connotation to each man. The last two weeks having made the impact they had, Bodie himself now felt differently to when he opened that invitation.

At the head of the room Major Statham stood and drew himself up with honed precision. Everyone rose by instinct, facing an empty place setting at one end of the top table. “Gentlemen, I am honoured to deliver the tribute to those who have failed to beat the clock with a few lines from ‘The Golden Road to Samarkand’.” Statham paused. Then, for Bodie, his familiar voice seemed to add extra weight to the sentiment of the verse.

“We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go 

Always a little further: it may be

Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow

Across that angry or that glimmering sea.” º

Guy raised his port glass to their missing comrades’ place at table. “To fallen comrades; lest we forget.” he intoned. 

“To fallen comrades; lest we forget.” The entire assembly repeated the toast, drank, and then re-seated themselves respectfully.

Bodie turned in his chair and looked at Strawbridge. Neither had to speak. Both were thinking of the fourth member of their patrol, before they all split to become sergeants. Andy and he had survived to make it out into their own kinds of wars. Keller was either in the glasshouse or at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Bodie didn’t care to know which, at the moment. But David Owain Thomas had died of his injuries following an airplane assault to free hostages. Neither had been there to save him. Big and loud with a huge appetite for life, his death had left a literal hole in their world. They raised a glass to each other. 

“To Taffy.” Strawbridge toasted. 

“To Taffy.” Bodie agreed and drained the last of the rich, tawny liquid. It was done. Maybe they would talk about him sometime soon, in private; but for now, it was enough.

Coffee was served and the formalities became more relaxed. Men began to circulate, swapping places to chat to friends, going outside to smoke; some began their farewells. To Bodie’s amusement, Norris thanked him for his company. The older man had no idea how his neighbour had been feeling when they’d sat down to dinner so Bodie was just as grateful to him, in his way. He said goodbye and Norris moved off to talk to others.

Strawbridge nudged Bodie, indicating the upper part of the table. “Look at the odious little creep. Can’t stop brown nosing the boss, even now. Still, I expect he gets a lot of practice being some big city trader.” 

They both regarded Fraser with distaste as he cosied up to the Major. Statham was looking like he’d rather not have the dubious privilege but was showing far more tact than the former soldier was. They accepted more coffee and sat in companionable silence for a while. Bodie did his people watching thing. SAS protection duties had started it but CI5 made it habitual, these days. He noted that there weren’t many younger ex members in the room, only a few from his time. ‘Is this what happens?’ he wondered. ‘That it hurts like hell, at first. Then, as we get older, remembering becomes more comfortable, more welcome with time?’ And somehow the thought didn’t seem quite so disturbing.

Another nudge from his left interrupted his musings. “Go on; go see the old man before Fraser bores the pants off him. I’ll be okay, might see where that nice little waitress has got to.” 

Bodie looked at his friend with derision. “God Bridgie, that’s usually my line. I know just how Doyle feels, now.” He got up and tossed back the remainder of his cup. “Right, I’m going in. Send out a search party if I don’t return...or the seventh cavalry if I try to murder Fraser.” He earned a massive wallop on the back as he moved away and wove his way through the crowd.

Statham was skilfully edging out Fraser who was trying to monopolise his attentions and Bodie’s arrival completed the manoeuvre. The man was forced to accept the officer’s hand right in front of his rival. He took it grudgingly then regarded Bodie with an air of condescension. “Oh Bodie, come to say your farewells, have you?”

“Excuse us, Fraser. Bodie and I have a lot to discuss. Good to see you and please give my regards to your parents.” He was summarily dismissed, speechless. 

The pair both regarded the floor for a few moments, trying to suppress victorious smirks. When the coast was clear, Statham motioned Bodie down into a chair and poured them both a brandy from a decanter. “Thanks for the rescue. Your health, Bodie.”

“And yours, Guy.”

After some general chit chat about the gathering, the meal and the state of the world in general, Statham made another clever manoeuvre. “How are you?” It was not so much a question as a friendly order which needed to be obeyed.

The man was grinning, wryly. “I’m in one piece, relatively unscathed and still alive. Eight years after leaving your tender ministrations, I think it’s a pretty good track record, don’t you?”

“Now I know you’re okay, man; straightforward and yet as evasive as ever! But the fact that you’re at a reunion, after all this time, is more information than you could ever tell me.” 

Bodie was being appraised but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as he’d thought it would be and he grinned more easily. “Yeah well, never could get anything past you, Guy. Seriously, I’m good. Steady, if slightly dangerous, job, nice flat, a good man as my partner; couldn’t want for more.”

“Except someone waiting for you, to return home...” 

“No. But I have my share of fun and laughs. Never too long between bed warmers, shall we say.” Bodie wiggled his eyebrows.

Statham laughed and then was suddenly serious again. “So, not found a girl crazy enough to make an honest man of you, yet?”

Bodie sighed “Doubt if I’ll ever be that...again.” adding the last word with hesitation but knowing he was safe with this confident. “Or if there’s anyone out there that I could ever...” He swallowed, unwilling to finish the thought. 

“Helen will be very pleased that I’ve seen you. She still worries about you, even now.” 

Bodie looked up to see that same pastoral care from years ago. “How is Hels?”

“Very well, thank you. Not so sure that she enjoys being called Grandma, but the little monster compensates for that, apparently.”

“You’re grandparents, now? God, I’ll bet she loves that!” Bodie exclaimed, then had to admit “It’s been a long time, Guy. Too long. I should’ve called her.”

“The wonderful, long suffering woman is a paragon of her kind, Bodie, as you well know. And you are, damn you, forgiven. Hels never thought badly of you for leaving.” Statham was up beat, trying to make this easier for him. 

“She...both of you, were very good to me. I never really thanked you. Not properly.” 

Statham leaned forward discreetly and gripped Bodie on the arm. “All long forgiven, old chap. Maybe not forgotten. We certainly haven’t; but only for your sake, for what you went through. It wasn’t your fault. Any of it.”

Bodie smiled his gratitude. It seemed the subject was concluded. Although it had needed to be aired and he’d done so with resignation, he was glad it was over. 

Guy had one last thing to say. “Take some advice from your old mentor?” The man only continued when his former sergeant nodded with forbearance. “Just don’t dismiss the ‘honest man’ role; not off hand, anyway. I know I’ve got one of the good ‘uns but there are other ‘Helens’ out there. As time goes by, never underestimate the power of a good woman.” 

Bodie offered his phone number. Statham took it, saying that he could easily track him down via Cowley. The unspoken message was that the ball was in Bodie’s court. He knew where they were, if he wanted to get in touch and the major and his wife would be pleased to hear from him. Even warmer handshaking ensued and Bodie departed. 

He was wrung out but at ease as they left the function. 

“Well, that as bad as you thought it’d be, Bodie?”

“It was okay...Hey, what d’you mean ‘as bad as you thought’?” He turned to Strawbridge, almost wondering if his old friend could be part of the scheming that had brought him here tonight.

“Oh c’mon, it might’ve been a few years but I know you. You were coiled tighter than a spring when I jumped on you earlier. Could see it a mile off. You didn’t want to be here and yet you came. What was it, to see my beautiful ‘boat’?” The man grinned unreservedly as they walked toward the cloakroom.

Bodie nodded back, smile acknowledging that the years since serving together hadn’t wiped out all memory. “Well, I thought it was about time...to test myself out. See if I could remember without wanting to...”

“Smack Fraser in the gob?”

“I was going to say ‘without wanting to forget’.”

“You poetic git, you! Always were going on about your ‘blushy dawns’ an’ ‘palely loiterin’’, weren’t you?” Strawbridge joked, then paused as his friend had stopped. 

“Andy, you being here helped. Thanks.” 

Bodie’s words hit the other suddenly. He’d been to reunions since leaving but always avoided too much reminiscence, himself. He had his own demons. He knew what this had taken. The men stood, toe to toe and eye to eye in the hotel lobby, shaking each other by the hand. Making a more sober tableau this time. One that some might think awkward without knowing the action and consequences former Sergeants Bodie and Strawbridge had experienced.

“Hey, let’s not leave it so long, next time, eh?”

“Come back to mine now if you want. I’ve got tomorrow off, could introduce you to the scrawny bloke that minds my back these days.”

“Thanks, but I’m paying my folks a visit. Don’t get down much now I’m in Scotland. Gimme your number, though. Another time and I’ll gladly buy a pint for whoever can put up with your moaning.”

Collecting their coats, they walked outside. The night was cold with a typical London fog descending when Bodie and Andy Strawbridge made a temporary farewell which was certain not to be their last. “Give your mum and dad my best.”

“Mum’ll be made up that I’ve seen you. Dad might not register, though. They think it’s some sort of stroke, Bodie. It’s buggered his memory.”

Strawbridge headed off and Bodie stood at the top of the steps, hands deep in his overcoat pockets, deciding between tube or cab. He then considered that being near the theatres might mean a lack of taxis and so staying the night could be an alternative. After all, he had the next day on leave and had been through enough, that week, to warrant a treat. The reunion hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought and he had the feeling that he would sleep better tonight than he’d anticipated.

 

“Ahh! ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow...’” A weasel-y voice brought him back to the steps of the hotel. 

Bodie swivelled to see his forgotten tormentor leaning against the doorway. “Don’t you ever give up?” he lobbed back. Hotel it was, then! Bodie moved to push past but the man stepped to block his way. Determined to keep his cool, the bigger man frowned at the other. “I’ll bet you don’t even remember why you started aggin’ me, do you? It’s been a long time, Fraser. Let it go.”

“Being busted back down wasn’t hard to swallow as we were all in the same boat.” * The hate was tangible now. “But when you made sergeant before me,” the man shook his head with disbelief “that was it. My family go back for five generations in the forces. You; who were you, exactly?”

Automatically, Bodie found his right hand ready by his hip to make an open hand strike at the prat’s solar plexus. But, aware of himself, he now realised how much more so than when in the Regiment, he held firm. He made a mental note, crediting Doyle and his Sensei for this level of consciousness. The earlier arrest and last night’s crisis had taken the raw edge off his inner rage; tonight had left him reflective but calmer. For once, his temper was in check. Bodie put his face close to that of his antagonist, noticing, with pleasure, that Fraser’s eyes weren’t on his but on his controlled right arm. Karate instincts obviously satisfied, he lowered it and was further encouraged by the man jumping minutely at the motion. 

His bravado, however, wasn’t gone. “Careful, Bodie; that was almost assault and you’re a bloody cop...” Fraser whispered in the other’s face. 

Knowing that he could take him down if he wanted to but with the risk that Fraser would very likely report him and he’d get lambasted again by Cowley, Bodie wouldn’t give this idiot the satisfaction. But the open hand returned to his side because Bodie enjoyed how it made the man look at him. “Fraser,” he stated clearly and quietly “I was the man who made sergeant before you on merit, not because my old man was a major.” Then used their favourite corruption of the regiment’s motto, just to make his point. “But that’s okay isn’t ’it, Frase’? What did we used to say in our day ‘who cares who wins’?” Fraser’s face was no longer as smug when this was swiftly followed with “So, tell me, if you were so proud to carry on family tradition why did you sell out to big business?” Not expecting an answer, the CI5 agent finished on a personal high note. “And as for being ‘a bloody cop’? I’m not, I’m worse...much worse. So just you think again before threatening me.” 

Bodie walked jauntily away down the steps feeling much better than he had ever done in this situation. Not looking back to admire the result of his one-upmanship he was just trying to hail a cab when he heard a whistle. Doyle was drawing up in his Capri on the opposite side of the street. “‘Allo soldier! Want a lift?” he shouted with an affected air and then, as Bodie trotted between the traffic towards him “Oh, don’t you scrub up well!” 

“Already tried that line on someone tonight, Doyley.” Bodie advised, getting into the passenger side. “Didn’t work then, either. He was even bigger than me.” Bodie had been more than pleased to see his partner’s smiling face on many occasions and tonight was no exception, just for a different reason. As he settled into the familiar seat he had to ask. “How did you know, then?” 

“Went to yours to see if you were really going fishing this weekend. Saw Jo. She said you were coming after all but she was a bit worried about you. I pushed you to it, so...” 

“Look Ray, I haven’t been in the best of moods these last couple of weeks. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, you’re alright. Like I said, it was kind of my fault. Anyway, who’d put up with you other than me?” Grins exchanged, the driver pulled out into traffic. “Who was that then, your mate Andy?”

“No, would’ve introduced you. No, just some tosser who’s in the city, now. Thought he had the drop on me but he doesn’t.”

“Home then?”

“Yes please, driver, and take your time. I got all togged up, might as well make the most of having a chauffeur."

**Author's Note:**

> ˢ The iconic front cover image of U2’s 1983 album ‘War’. The opening track refers to the ‘Bloody Sunday’ shootings by members of The Parachute Regiment in 1972. 
> 
> º This tradition occurs in some Army Regiments. Its’ connection here is a whim of mine, as is the reference to the names of those members of the SAS who have died on duty. These are inscribed on the SAS regimental clock tower at Stirling Lines. Those whose names are inscribed, are said to have ‘failed to beat the clock’ by surviving members. Inscribed on the base of the clock is a verse from ‘The Golden Road to Samarkand’ by James Elroy Flecker. 
> 
> * When recruits pass the selection process for the SAS, available information states that they revert to rank of Trooper. In ‘Kickback’, Jimmy Keller and Bodie are both said to have been ‘Sergeants in the SAS’ and Keller says that Bodie was “active between ‘71 and ‘76”. Bodie tells Cowley that he then: “Pitched up with you”. Sources also state that the first 12 months in the SAS are probationary. If Bodie previously returned from Africa, joined the regular Army and moved to the Parachute Regiment, before the SAS - neither of which are easily achieved, despite it being quoted that Bodie ‘was seconded to the SAS’ - and joined CI5 in about 1975/6, I have supposed that he rose rapidly to the rank of Sergeant and that a man from a forces family might resent a working class man getting ahead of him in rank.


End file.
